


Think Locally, Fuck Globally

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-23
Updated: 2010-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awesome sex can't be distilled down to 140 characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Think Locally, Fuck Globally

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivers_bend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/gifts).



Tommy's phone stops spinning halfway across the table. He's sitting with one foot up on the bench seat, bleeding attitude as he chews sulkily on the end of a toothpick. "Fine. Fuck you very much."

"Anytime, sweetheart," Adam says. "Just not over Twitter."

" _Okay_ , I get it." Tommy heaves a sigh, his life nothing but endless suffering at the hands of an ungenerous megalomaniacal boyfriend. His gaze flickers to the phone, a sly smile edging in around the toothpick. "But that shit was fucking hot."

Adam tosses a glance down at the unsent message. Even written in shorthand and with a typo where Tommy got so caught up in the idea that he forgot to fix autocomplete, it's hot. He'd take Tommy up on the offer right here and now, but there's a car waiting outside to take him to an interview. According to the time on Tommy's phone, it's been there for the last fifteen minutes. When he looks back up, it's to Tommy's crooked grin. He blows out a theatrical breath, shaking his head, and Tommy's grin miraculously manages to grow wider, brighter, blindingly gorgeous. The last thing he wants to do is leave. Being a rockstar is so fucking hard some days.

"Absolutely no sexting," Adam says, nudging Tommy's phone away with a finger. The entire concept's ridiculous. Awesome sex can't be distilled down to 140 characters. That's barely even enough to express a coherent thought. "Ever."

"You love it," Tommy says, still grinning, flipping the toothpick with his tongue.

*

That's the end of the whole sexting debacle, except it isn't. Squinting at a post-it covered in Tommy's scrawling handwriting, Adam runs through the conversation one more time, sure he didn't mention giving the go-ahead for a low-tech alternative. He loses track of the memory somewhere around the third or fourth time Tommy mutters fuck, mostly because the words _Tommy_ and _fuck_ in close proximity have that effect on him. But the real culprit is the note he's accidentally started rereading. Graphic is not a graphic enough word to describe how _graphic_ it is. He flips it over honestly expecting a diagram on the back.

He takes a minute to think about the potential fall-out if somebody other than him had cracked open his super-secret stash of vanilla bean latte granola bars. Obviously it wasn't as super a secret as he'd thought, but then, keeping junk food off of Tommy's radar is about as easy as turning off the sun. Besides that, it _is_ only Tommy. Safe, non-judgemental, prone to indulging whims and whimsy Tommy, who can know about things like Adam's squirrelling away of calorie-laden treats. They're not the point here, anyway.

Adam's not sure he can call the pornographic post-it whim or whimsy, but it's definitely all Tommy. Somehow Tommy has managed to cram cock in there three times in the first seven words. After that, it's dick, dick and more dick, and Adam supposes he gets a few points for briefly experimenting with synonyms. It's not exactly Tommy's fault--Tommy's the type to get really, really focused, and like hell that's something Adam's ever going to complain about. Ever. Especially in bed. Tommy's a fucking incredible lay. It's definitely something to do with that single-minded dedication.

Wrangling his rambling thoughts, Adam is left two problems: what to do about the note, and what to do about a totally inappropriate boner three minutes before a meet-and-greet.

*

The thing about watching somebody like a hawk is they can't _know_ you're watching them like a hawk or it screws with their reactions. Adam concentrates on soundcheck, loosening up his voice, letting it stretch, and determinedly doesn't bore a hole through the side of Tommy's head when he strolls onto the stage, slouched in a hoodie with both hands jammed into his pockets.

Adam is generally a patient guy. But the seven and a half years it takes Tommy to meander around saying hi to everybody is excessive, and by the time he's made it to his corner, Adam's impatience has driven his voice up several octaves higher than he'd been aiming. He waves irritably at the sound guy, as if it's anybody's fault but his own, and keeps watching out of the corners of his eyes as Tommy spies the paper wedged beneath his Viper. Tommy is crazily territorial about his instruments--unlike Monte, who is just crazy, and prone to cooing at them at odd intervals--so it's the perfect hiding place.

An international man of mystery Tommy Joe is not. The second Tommy figures out what that scrap of paper _could_ be, his posture flips from casual to stalker-shady. He flings a few shifty glances from one side of the stage to the other, then slings the strap over his shoulder as he palms the notepaper in a surprisingly smooth gesture. It's a damn good thing everyone's busy staring at Adam, trying to figure out what the hell he's doing jumping randomly from note to note, and not why Tommy's suddenly acting like a teenager with half a bag of weed and a Playboy hidden under his shirt.

Plastering on a bright smile, Adam says, "Just having fun, messing around," to no one in particular. That earns him a chorus of indulgent laughs and leaves him somewhat free to watch as Tommy kicks back against the side of the stairs, fiddling with fake-tuning as he reads the note cupped in his palm.

From halfway across the stage Adam can still see the moment when what's written there really nails Tommy where it counts. There's a furtive shift behind the bass and a softness to his mouth, a teasing flash of tongue as he wets his lips. He stares at the note for a long few minutes before the world filters back in and he starts, furtively glancing to the side as he stuffs it into his pocket. When his gaze lands on Adam, he smiles, satisfied and sly.

And then he waves at someone, pointing questioningly at his bass. The tracks Adam's working with drop off to leave a silence Tommy's quick to fill. Producing a pick out of thin air, he plucks out a few chords, head down and fingers dancing as he casually jams his way across the stage, another sneaky smile thrown Adam's way as Adam pitches his voice to match the naked bass line. It thuds into his chest, drowning out the rushed skip-beat of his heart as Tommy plasters to his side. Tommy's head comes back to rest on his shoulder, five hours of foreplay packed into the inviting slack of his mouth, the flutter of his eyelashes as he looks up, quickly down, bass tilted so the back of his hand skims teasingly past Adam's cock.

Tommy grins, impish and so, so proud of himself at the sudden rough dip of Adam's voice.

*

Adam's laptop sits innocuously open on his bunk. He eyeballs it suspiciously. That's not where he left it, and when his things aren't where he's left them, he starts running through the usual suspects while checking obsessively for whoopee cushions and plastic wrap and fake dog shit.

Everything seems cool. Still, he reaches cautiously for the trackpad. If anyone could turn his laptop into the real life version of Harry Potter's _The Monster Book of Monsters_ , it would be someone in his troupe. But the screen flickers on, all his fingers remain attached, and maybe relief at not being forced to learn how to jerk off with his left hand is the reason it takes him a little longer than it should to realise there are five and a half pages of porn typed out in Word.

Glancing around in a last-ditch effort to make sure no one's stuffed in his closet taping this--as if someone could actually _fit_ in there with all the clothes and boots it's bursting with--Adam drops to the bunk, one leg tucked up under the other, and pulls the computer into his lap. His first thought is that someone's punk'd him with more dregs from the internet. There's some hardcore, clutch-your-balls, really seriously nasty stuff out there, and he'd honestly like to see someone _not_ squirm while reading it.

But that's not what this is. Right from the first paragraph it's more like stream-of-consciousness without the pretension, starting with _so fuck yeah, had this fucking great idea_ and Adam can hear Tommy's voice in his head as clearly as if he were right there, whispering it in his ear. It goes from _think you could hold me down for real, could make me stay under you? 'cause we gotta fucking try that shit, total rapefantasy shit, know you won't pussy out on me, not if I really want it so fucking bad_ to _gonna seriously buy you some fucking flowers one of these days, red and white roses together, right? that means unity. wikipedia says blue roses are fake but screw that, I'll get you some of those anyway, bet you'd like the whole love at first sight thing, romantic motherfucker_ and Adam has to stop there, breathe. His heart's twisted up so hard in his chest it's crushing his lungs.

It's like that all the way through, the most fucked-up dirty love letter Adam's ever seen. He gives up trying to breathe and concentrates on not jizzing his jeans. Tommy's brain is all over the place, a confession of a late-night jerk off because of something Adam had said, something that Tommy doesn't even remember anymore though he definitely remembers how hard he came, leaping awkwardly to _remember that time in Cabo, that thing you did, with your tongue, right,_ and Adam has no idea what the hell he's talking about, they both did a lot of things with their tongues in Cabo. Then he's off and running to Paris, talking about the places they could go and the things they could do in a country where even Johnny motherfucking Depp can walk down the street without cameras shoved in his face.

As soon as Adam hits the end, he scrolls frantically back up to the top to read it all over again. Halfway through, the low battery warning pops up in the corner of his screen and he panics, scrambling to hit save. He smashes a bunch of random keys for the file name and clicks the mouse button frantically until the fucking thing registers that yes, he would like to _fucking keep this_. When it finally does, he flops back onto the bed dramatically, one arm thrown across his eyes. One of these days Tommy is going to actually fucking kill him.

Peeking out from beneath his arm, he eyes the still merrily-glowing screen. His gaze gets hooked on the middle of a sentence-- _your dick, fucking awesome, when you_ \--and groaning, he snaps the lid shut. His cock aches. His whole _body_ is one giant ache, and he's in the middle of groping for his phone to call Tommy up for a total booty call when he remembers he's on a bus, with other people, and the entire caravan is all of five minutes from taking off for the highway.

He grabs up a pillow instead and crushes it to his face, wondering if self-suffocation would really be such a horrible way to go.

*

Five hours later, they pull into a rest stop. Adam bolts out the door, Neil's, "And fuckin' stay out there until you're not crazy!" hot on his heels.

"As if!" is not the best retort of Adam's sibling career, but it's not like Neil's actually listening, already slunk back into the safety of the shadows near the back of the bus. A few of the others stumble out after him, blinking like groundhogs suddenly thrust into daylight. They wander off, stretching their legs, Terrence and Sasha cackling in the trail of dust he leaves in his wake as he jogs over to where the other bus is rolling to a stop. He thumps on the door before the engine cuts. "Tommy Joe! Tommy Joe, get your punk ass out here!"

Adam takes a few reluctant steps back as the door clicks open, people he loves but who are not Tommy filing by, smiling and laughing, clapping him on the shoulder. Monte's the last one out, and he pauses to say, one eyebrow cocked, "Half an hour, rockstar."

Making a face, Adam waggles his hand back and forth. "No promises."

Monte rolls his eyes and shuffles off.

Catching the door before it can swing shut, Adam flings himself up the steps two at a time and almost kills himself on a tangle of equipment shoved precariously near the top. He scowls down at it, shaking his foot free of the wires sprouting from it like tentacles.

From the couch comes Tommy's quiet laugh. "Smooth."

"This is why you're not on my bus," Adam says, finally free. "You musicians booby-trap your lairs." The distance between them closed with three quick strides, Adam fits a hand to Tommy's throat and looks at him for a long second in the bus's false twilight before bringing their mouths together. Tommy opens up easily for it, the glide of his tongue coaxing, lazy, like he expects Adam to do all the work here. Adam would complain, sometimes he's really seriously tempted to complain, except then he remembers the part where Tommy is so crazily responsive that doing all the work is completely worth it.

Something hits the floor when Tommy rolls from his side to his back, an invitation for Adam to climb right on top of him, and Adam glances down, sees the bright display of Tommy's phone. He picks it up, not at all surprised to see it's open on a blank text addressed to him. He gives Tommy a long, steady look.

"A guy can fucking hope, okay," Tommy huffs.

"Seriously," Adam says, giving the phone a light toss onto the nearest chair, "what is it with you and sexting?"

A shrug. "It's hot." Then, when Adam just keeps staring at him, another annoyed puff of breath. "It's _really_ fucking hot, alright? Like, the idea that you're thinking about me, and all the shit we do, and it's driving you crazy 'cause you want to _do_ it, but you can't."

"So, you're saying torturing me gets you off," Adam says, voice flat. Sadistic little shit.

" _And_ ," Tommy says, steamrolling right on over him, "since you can't fucking do it, you're telling me all about it. How you wanna get my dick in your mouth, suck me off so I'm all loose and relaxed for when you get yours up in me, so you can fuck me hard again, watch me getting off on you giving it to me, _everything_ , making sure I'm primed so the second you can get your hands on me, I'm just gonna fucking blow."

Adam forces a sliver of breath into his lungs to say, "Oh."

"Yeah, fucker," Tommy says, thumbing at the corner of Adam's lips. "Hot as fuck."

"That," Adam says, and has to pause, kiss the pad of Tommy's thumb as it skims across his mouth, "that sounds like a really amazing time."

"Goddamn right it is."

There's a sly glint to Tommy's eyes, though, and a tiny, niggling voice pipes up in the very back of Adam's brain. He can't hear it very well over the pounding of his heart, but it makes him stop, think. "You shit," he says, and he wouldn't believe Tommy would do it, he _wouldn't_ , except Tommy totally _did_. "You skipped the whole fucking texting part. You just. You slammed me with it all at once!"

Tommy's grin is vicious, shit-eating. "Got you over here like your ass was on fire."

"You owe me," Adam promises, a dark edge to his voice, "and I am so taking it out of yours," and Tommy keeps smiling, wiggles his ass like that's been his plan from the start, he's just been waiting for Adam to catch on. "You are such a bitch."

"You love it," Tommy says, arching up to breathe the words straight into Adam's mouth.

Adam lets him get as far as sliding a little tongue in after them before shoving him back flat on the couch with a hand splayed in the middle of his chest. His eager, "Oof," turns to wide-eyed shock when Adam says, "Tomorrow."

"No way," Tommy bursts out, "no fucking way, Adam, you heard Monte, they're gonna-"

Adam presses a fingertip to Tommy's lips. "Honey, there's no way in hell a half an hour will be enough for what I want to do to you."

Tommy snarls, "Motherfucker," and Adam laughs, snatching his finger back just in time to escape the hard clack of teeth.

*

"Fuck," Tommy moans, muffled by his hands loosely covering his face, "oh, fuck, Adam, I said I was sorry, god, you fucking _suck_."

"Not at the moment, I don't," Adam says brightly. As brightly as he can manage, anyway. Tommy cusses at him again, so he figures at least a measure of his musical theatre training has stuck, because this slow-burn patience thing he's inflicting on Tommy right now? It's fucking _killing_ him.

It's half past one in the morning and the hotel lamps are on full, which means it's still a warm, hazy glow of light, enough to see by but not enough to _see_. Tommy is laid out flat on his back on the bed, a pillow neither of them intends to sleep on stuffed under his hips to prop his ass up, and he'd possibly been a pornstar in a former life because it doesn't look like it's a strain at all for him to keep his knees up while he's busy hiding behind his hands and both of Adam's hands are very, very busy playing with his hole.

"So fucking sweet," Adam says, distracted again by how easily Tommy takes three fingers all the way to the knuckle, how he tightens up around them so very slowly as Adam drags them free.

Tommy's arms flop to the bed with a quiet thump. He opens his mouth to speak but Adam cuts him off with a few crooked fingers, stroking him on the inside, and whatever he meant to say comes out as low whine of breath. Sucking in another to try again gets the same result, and Adam grins, says, "Something on your mind, sweetheart?"

"Kill you in your fucking sleep," Tommy grits out, hips jerking.

"You'd miss me, baby," Adam says, dragging an open-mouthed kiss along Tommy's calf. Tommy's hips jerk again when Adam's hand skims by his cock, fingertips rubbing in the precome glistening on Tommy's belly. Tommy's the type of guy that gets really wet when he's into it, and the longer he's got to wait to get off, the slicker he is.

Earlier, maybe an hour after a late lunch, Tommy cornered him the bathroom, slammed him up against the back of the door and kissed him. Really, seriously _kissed_ him, until the air in his lungs went stale. And for a minute there Adam forgot all about making him wait. He moaned when Adam unzipped his jeans, moaned again, frustrated, when Adam cupped his cock through his shorts and Adam froze, brain screeching to a smoking halt at the fucking wet spot caught beneath his palm. And he stumbled, cursing, when Adam shoved him back to get a better look at it, heat racing up Adam's spine because he was already so worked from a few kisses.

"Gonna come," Tommy threatens now, hand twitching toward his dick. "And I'm gonna fucking take a nap right after, leave you hanging."

"Make sure you roll over first," Adam says, and runs a damp fingertip down the seam of Tommy's balls to where his fingers are stretching Tommy wide. "Less work for me when I fuck you."

"If you ever fucking do." Tommy shakes his hair back, drags it off his face when it sticks. The roots are dark with sweat, clumped and heavy. His face is flushed, too, a soft splash of colour across his cheeks, a deeper stain on chest. The hollow of his throat shines in the lamplight, and Adam leans up to lick at it, follow the length of it up to bite gently at the stubbornly thin line of Tommy's mouth. "Fucker," Tommy mutters, between nips.

Adam's not sure how much more of this Tommy'll actually take for him, the same as he's not sure it's a good idea to have his pinky flirting at Tommy's hole beside the tight knot of fingers already sunk deep. But when he presses, carefully, slowly, Tommy shivers and opens up for him, both for his tongue and his fingers. He stops long before he gets to the wide span of his knuckles, making Tommy's breath hiss.

A heartbeat pause, and Tommy says in a rush, "Don't just fucking stop there." He chokes on a groan, the twitch of Adam's fingers inside him rippling out in a shudder. "Got me open, fucking- fucking go for it."

Heat flares flashfire quick in Adam's belly. He wets his lips and eases back, bracing his hand on the back of Tommy's thigh. Tommy is so wet for it, lube staining the pillowcase, his cock leaking, and he's so soft, so loose. Teeth digging into his bottom lip, Adam pushes a little more, a car-crash wreck of sound clogging up his throat. Tommy's body goes tight for a split-second of resistance, and then Adam's knuckles are sinking into him, wedging him wide, wide open. Adam presses his thumb to the soft skin beneath Tommy's balls and stares, heartbeat drumming in his skull.

"Fuck," Tommy's saying, quiet, a static hush, "fuck, holy fuck," and his hands are twisting in the sheets, letting go to flutter near where Adam's buried in him and falling short, nails scraping at the pillow instead.

"Talk to me," Adam rasps, struggling not to push harder, deeper, to really make Tommy's voice break.

Tommy shakes his head, says, "Like, _fuck_ , like you've got your fucking arm shoved up my ass, Jesus," and he presses a hand to his belly, grunts another curse. "You don't, right?" His tongue flicks out over his lips. "You're not seriously fisting me right now, right?"

"No," Adam says, and he means to stop there, but, "baby, I could. I could get my whole hand up inside you now, you have no fucking idea what you look like, what you feel like," comes tumbling out, half of it lost in the ragged moan that tears loudly out of Tommy's throat.

Hot on its heels Tommy's body seizes up, telltale ripple of pressure around Adam's fingers but Adam's stuck completely and totally dumb, unable to even fucking blink as Tommy's hips come up off the pillow and he loses it. Not a hand on him, nothing but too much foreplay and Adam's fingers up his ass, Tommy comes, voice caught halfway through a tattered noise echoing low and ruined in his chest. He fucks down onto Adam's hand, great big wads of the sheets tangled up in his fists, riding out shocks of pleasure long after his dick's stopped twitching, and then he collapses in a sprawled heap, sucking down air like a drowning man thrust onto the shore.

Somehow, Tommy gets his breath back while Adam's still figuring out if there are any unfried braincells left in his own head. It takes a few extra seconds for Tommy's eyes to flutter open, and when they do, they're still dazed, unfocused. "Fucking warned you," he says, after taking a shallow breath.

"I thought you were kidding," Adam says, running a gentle hand down Tommy's thigh as he draws his hand free. He can't help but watch Tommy's stretched hole slowly close, can't help stroking his fingers over it, a fresh spike of adrenaline-lust shooting into his veins when the tip of one sinks in without a bit of pressure behind it.

"Ow, fuck, give me a minute," Tommy grunts, and Adam snatches his hand back, biting his lip sheepishly. He goes back to soft, soothing, though holy fuck, all he really wants to do is put his fingers right back where they were, put that tiny crinkle of pleasure-pain back on Tommy's face.

Then Tommy says, "Don't even fucking try it," and Adam's stomach hits the ground and keeps on going, bursting out through the earth's crust somewhere around China. "That oops-sorry shit doesn't work on me. You're gonna get me a fucking beer, like, a whole fucking case, before you stick anything else in me. A fucking _keg_."

"I've got Jack?" Adam says, hopeful. He'd really, really like to fuck Tommy right the hell now, but he'll take soon. For a moment there he'd thought Tommy was going to sweep any and all further fucking straight off the table.

Tommy sticks out a hand. "Bottle."

Scooting off the bed, Adam hitches his half-undone jeans up around his hips and goes rooting through the explosion of clothes near their suitcases. He honestly should've said something when Tommy had thumped his down beside Adam's, because there are appearances that need upkeeping, and an unoccupied, unused room is bound to raise a few eyebrows. It's not like he's in any way personally opposed to the idea of Tommy bunking with him for the night, though, and listening to his common sense is never as much fun as listening to his dick.

"Aha!" Adam calls, hoisting the mostly-full flask above his head. He trots back over and presents it with a flourish.

"Guess it'll do," Tommy says, eyeballing it disdainfully.

Adam playfully slaps Tommy's hip. "Bitch. Don't think I won't fuck you if you get drunk off that."

Tommy says, "Yeah?" before tipping the flask up, taking a deep, long pull of raw liquor that would have Adam's throat burning. "Could be pretty sleazy if I pass out."

"I can work with sleaze," Adam says, and he's joking, honestly, but there's this weird light to Tommy's eyes that makes him wonder. Things have gotten kinky between them before, a little rougher than even Adam would go on his own. Tommy makes him want to _do_ things. He smiles crookedly. "If you want to wake up one morning with my dick in your ass, you know all you have to do is say."

"'Kay," Tommy says, "tomorrow you should wake me up with your dick in my ass."

Adam blinks. "Seriously?"

"Fuck yeah." Capping the flask, Tommy tosses it down somewhere near the foot of the bed. "Want me to suck you off now?"

"I don't, well, uh," Adam starts, but Tommy's already up on his knees, bare lube-smeared, well-fucked ass wiggling in front of Adam's face as he crawls down to tug Adam's cock free. And then, "Oh, shit," he's not thinking about anything else except how much he really fucking loves Tommy's filthy mouth.

*

Adam jolts awake to twilight silence. It takes his sleepy brain a moment to process that it's a little too quiet, and he reaches out groggily for the warm lump of Tommy that isn't beside him. Frowning, he shoves up on one elbow, pokes a little further down the mattress just in case Tommy migrated in his sleep.

Nothing. Frown cutting deeper, he rolls over to check the time, his palm landing on a crinkling scrap of paper. He scrubs sleep out of his eyes and squints down at it, willing the inky blobs to resolve into actual words. When it bitchily ignores him, he gropes for the lamp, cursing as light flares like a supernova.

 _Too late,_ Tommy's quick scrawl says. _Got a schedule to keep. Guess you're gonna have to tell me all about it instead._


End file.
